Tricana

The old nightingale told me, from Choupal's grove
That the prettiest girl would soon meet her end
For turning away from her fateful love
A young troubadour, for whom she had fallen

He came to sing his serenades
By the banks of the Mondego, the gentle troubadour
Without ever caring, in his sweet songs
For the poor girl who died, devoted to her love

And it’s said that since then, a murmuring echo
That answers in Choupal, to the student band
Is the voice of Tricana, who thinks she’s the lover
Who today sings there, of her sad fate